Position: In-house Writer
Why am I part of Kezi? “I am part of Kezi because God decided to smile upon me. I have always dreamt of being part of such an amazing company and here I am doing what I love most in life - writing. One of my favourite quotes is by Anais Nin and it goes, ‘Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dreams again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living.’ I love the buzz and the hype at Kezi, the way we are all made to feel so important; we all have a role to play. I am learning more from Keri-Ann that I have ever learnt from any other individual and I see her as a mentor and I look up to her. Yes, synchronised deadlines freak me out and sometimes I do feel like I want to run away, but then I come back the next day…singing all the way as I’m driving to work.”
Strengths:
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Now look, I am very much a 21st Century kind of girl, ever-ready with my Blackberry and always ontop of my...tweets. But once Adam (bless his soul) starts talking to me about, "Jeremy Clarkson said this about that car" and "Did you see the mags on that thing?", I do get a very glossy expression in my eyes and develop ADD almost instantaneously. Before you judge me too harshly for being a ninny that doesn't know the difference between her GTi and GHD, consider the fact that I am a girl. Cars don't make me tick, they are, simply put, what I use to get from point A to the mall. So yes, sugar and spice and all things nice - that's what little girls are made of. And Subarus and Porches dragged by the power of 400 horses...THAT's what grown men are made of. Where am I going with this? To the mall, of course.
When Margie sent me an email a while back (followed by a formal request, which required a definite response from me) to accompany her and LJ (a guy) to the Ford factory for a tour of their plant, I thought it was a joke. A cruel joke orchestrated by the universe to punish me for all those times I went through the motions of well-placed "That's fantastic" and "I didn't know that, wow!" that slipped automatically from my mouth to tell Adam that I'm listening and interested. I thought to myself, why on earth would I want to do something like that? And so the "would" turned into "did" like the pumpkin turned into a carriage and I was pleasantly surprised, because I had a good time. In fact, I had a great time.
I've never given much thought to the how's and why's of cars. I mean, "How are cars made?" is the same to me as, "Who invented time?". I dunno, "Who cares?" seems like an appropriate response to me. But when we arrived at the Ford offices and they treated us like royalty, I dropped my guard and made a concerted effort to listen and pay attention. And it wasn't long before I got very interested and enthusiastic and almost broke into song. Just kidding (about the last bit, that is). But really, I had an awesome time.
Then we climed onto little trailers, pulled by a tractor-like vehicle in the front, popped in our headsets to make sure we could hear our very competent and gracious tourguide Riëtte (a real lady with a pashmina wrapped around her shoulders), put on our safety goggles and off we went for our tour of the actual plant. I was like a little kid in a sweetshop, I kid you not. My mouth was agape as we drove past literally hundreds of robots drilling and zapping and welding and spraying and and and...And then there's the people working on the car. They all looked happy and smiling as they worked, each person playing a part in building a car. Your car. MY car. Ensuring that every part is in its place and every coat of paint is perfectly applied. I secretly waved to some of them as we drove past - they were doing an important job.
Upon our return to the conference room, we were treated to a fabulous lunch and had some more chats and laughs about cars. I repeat myself, ABOUT CARS. I really had a fantastic day and will certainly have more respect for my own car in the future. We left with smiles, knowledge, Ford branded pens and lots to talk about. Thank you, Ford, for a wonderful experience! And thank you Hertz for inviting us.
...When I got home that evening, I couldn't wait to tell Adam about my day. His response, "That's cool, babe. What did you get me?". Groan. "You can have my pen while I have some of my own medicine," I thought to myself.
There is a term in the gaming world that gamers use when beating or killing their opponents, and this term is “owned” (i.e. “Dude, you just got owned”). I’ve never given this word much thought or attention. Perhaps I didn’t really understand the meaning of the word in its true context. Until last week, that is, when I myself got owned. By the universe.
Sometimes bad/irritating/infuriating/downright unnecessary things happen in life, and then one simply has to carry on…I know people who simply shrug their shoulders. And carry on. Others shake their heads profusely like boxers do after they’ve just had their lights punched out. And carry on. I, on the other hand, want to analyse things. I want to know why. I want to know how to avoid or prevent xyz from happening in the future. And I want to know where things went wrong, and who’s to blame (even if all fingers end up pointing at me). But I’m only human and last week I had to be reminded of that again - sometimes it's better to just shut up, (wo)man up and get with the programme.
I won’t go into the details of how the universe threw a big, fat f-bomb on me, because they are irrelevant and have little to do with the lessons that followed…
I sound like I’ve got it all figured out, right? Wrong. Very wrong. I just happened to have a “moment” where I learnt some valuable lessons. Will I make the same mistakes again? Hell yes. Will I beat myself up about it? I’m sure I will. But hopefully in the future, I will be the shoulder-shrugger instead of the head-shaker. And when the universe starts with me again, I will be able to say, “Bring.It.Barbie.”
I got married recently and my father-in-law, John, wrote this jewel of a short story. He is a man whom I love and respect dearly and he truly captured the essence of a series of events that had all the potential in the world to be disastrous. It's well worth a read.
Maryke and Adam’s Wedding It has been said that something always goes wrong at a wedding. I am not sure by whom it has been said. I am not even sure that it has been said – maybe I only think so. But at Maryke’s and Adam’s wedding something did go wrong. And it was my fault. I must state right at the start that although it went wrong, it in no way affected the wedding – that was superb as is well documented by all who were there and who raved about it. But something did go wrong. Perhaps this was the first time that the bride’s future step father-in-law delayed the start of the wedding. I was late because I was with the bridesmaids in a field. In a way my story starts a week before w-day. Liz and her running mate Anthony ran the Two Oceans Marathon in Cape Town. We all flew home together arriving late on Saturday night, the night of the race. We went to our car, which was parked in the staff parking at OR Tambo International Airport. I attempted to start the car to no avail. So I suggested to the two of them that they push to get me started. This was not greeted with enthusiasm. “We woke up at the crack of dawn. We ran 56 km. We were then scrunched up in an aircraft for two hours. We are waiting to go to bed and you tell us to push the car.” I agreed with them. I told them to man up, shut up and push the car. The alternative was to wait until dawn to get help. They relented, they pushed and I started it. Much muttering on the way home and I had to promise to get a new battery. I never keep my promises. I did go to an auto-electrician who tested the battery and assured me that it was fine. What has this to do with a wedding? Wait and see. Exactly one week later was w-day. Liz and I got to the venue, some 35km from home, at about noon to help with preparations for the 3:30 ceremony. At about five to three I thought that I should have a shower, freshen up, put on my new shirt, my suit (dry cleaned for the occasion), shoes (with brand new shoe laces) and my green number tie. Changing was going to be much easier for me than it was proving for Liz. You see, the room that we had booked was being used by all the boys – that is Adam, the best men (of which there were two), the master-of- ceremonies, the marriage officer and, or so it seemed, any other boy who was not dressed. All wanted to shower, use the toilet and get dressed. Liz is remarkably relaxed in situations such as this. A mere handful of boys using her room was certainly not enough to faze her. “I’m not worried,” she said as she left to change in the bride’s room. I agreed. It takes a lot to get her worried. Later she was worried. Time arrived for me to get ready. Just before I could, a rather flustered bridesmaid rushed to me and asked me whether I would take Maryke to be photographed. This fooled me. Perhaps I am easy to fool. Where on earth could I take Maryke to be photographed? We were at a wonderful, picturesque venue. Surely this was ideal for a bride to be photographed? Being gallant, I agreed. I was, after all, proud owner of a Condor. No better vehicle to transport a bride. There was much concern as Maryke came to the Condor. She must not be seen by the groom. Somehow I managed to open the back door, move the seat forward and guide her in to the back seat where she sat looking magnificent - and remarkably calm - and unseen by any groom, or in fact by any of the now dressed boys. I am not a fast thinker, and so was taken rather by surprise when the bridesmaid and also the other two bridesmaids got in the car. “Who am I,” I thought, “to question what was going on?” I got into the driving seat and nervously asked, “Where must I go?” “Follow that car,” I was told and I noted a small white car leaving up 200 metres of bumpy road. I had very precious cargo. A bride and three attendants. I obeyed orders and followed that car. Very tentatively I asked where we were going and was told that the destination was about 2 ½ km away. This was the time for me to shut up. So I did. Here I was driving away from the venue with about half an hour left before the ceremony. Definitely a time to shut up. 2 ½ km up the road the white car stopped. Carefully the maids got out of the Condor. Carefully I opened the door to allow Maryke with her large wedding dress out. Carefully I saw to it that her dress did not touch any grease or the dirty country road where we had stopped. And even more carefully I averted my eyes to ensure the modesty of the bride. I was not sure why we were there. There was no studio, merely a disused farm out-building in remarkable state of disrepair. And fields. Maryke was schlepped – there is no other word- across the road to the farm building and to the fields. To gain access she had to pass through a rusty gate, walk over mud and negotiate black jacks. I am a man of great resourcefulness. In the car was a blanket. I instructed the bridesmaids to wrap her in the blanket and guide her through the gate. I picked up my camera aimed for a shot and had my first brush with the photographer. “I do not allow anyone to take photographs on my set” she said. Chastened, I returned the camera to the car and followed them into the field. There Maryke had her first photograph taken in a field. What this had to do with the wedding I had no idea. I was too scared to ask. Photographs were taken. With bridesmaids and without. All looking sexy, pouting, serious, smiling, laughing and following many other instructions. Photographs were taken. I looked at my watch and saw that time was passing. At last the photographer was satisfied. I heaved a sigh of relief, but no. We moved to the other side of the building. There I was made to feel important. I was asked to hold the reflector so that the lighting was exactly right. I did this with great skill. I am after all an educated man. Again I noted the time and now felt distinctly concerned. The proceedings were interrupted. One of the farm labourers approached me, clutching a cell phone and complaining that we were on private property and not allowed to be there. He spoke in Afrikaans and offered me the phone, the other end of which was the owner of the farm. I feigned lack of understanding and pointed in the direction of the photographer. With some relief I believed that the session was about to end so suggested to the assistant photographer that she snap away as fast as she could as we were all about to be evicted. I could hear the photographer negotiating with the owner and explaining that we were not making a film. Then she smiled, told us all was in order, and we could continue. Again I considered the time. My heart sank. I was now seriously concerned. I looked down and saw how dirty I was, in a T shirt and clearly not dressed for a wedding. I mentioned this to the photographer and this was a second brush with her. At last Maryke was moved from the farm house. Another field was found and more photographs taken. Those finished, Maryke, wrapped in the blanket, was guided through the rusty gate and again I breathed a sigh of relief. But no. The four girls were instructed to walk up the road. They walked a long way! Photographs were taken. Eventually they shouted to me to bring the car. I did. I followed them. I stopped. I jumped out and opened the door, but the photographer had found another field. Again the four of them were photographed. Time was now a major problem. We were still 2 ½ km from the venue. Another brush with the photographer. You may well ask why I did not phone someone at the venue to advise them what was happening and that we would be late. The answer is simple. I had my phone, but Charlotte, who was a bridesmaid and with me, had Liz’s phone. I could not phone Liz. The only other number I knew was Adam’s. So I phoned him. Adam the groom! Wisely he had switched his phone off not to be disturbed. Not even by me. Then my phone rang. In my anxiety to get it from my pocket I must have hit the wrong button and cut off the caller. But modern technology allowed me to call back. Engaged! Again and again I tried until a very distraught woman answered. “Who is this?” I asked. “Sandra. Who are you?” I told her. To her credit she did not swear. She asked where I was and I told her that I was in some field with her daughter and the bridesmaids. I said that I hoped we were nearly finished and would soon be back at the venue. She sounded neither convinced nor happy. We trudged out of the field and drove back to the venue. There, were three people. All very grey. There was Liz. Looking stunning, but clearly worried. I wrote earlier of the car, the airport and the battery. Liz was worried. She imagined that the battery had failed and that I had had to get Maryke and the attendants, all in their finery, to push the car. She kept these thoughts to herself so as not to bother the others. This was on a need-to-know basis only. They certainly did not need to know. I have said that it took a lot to make Liz worry. This had been a lot. This had made her worry. There was Sandra. Also looking stunning. Also worried. She did not pass the time of day with me. She glared. There was Dale. Also worried. Most of all. Resplendent in his uniform. Ready to give his daughter away. Everything in order, except - he had no daughter to give away. I asked Maryke for a favour. “Please delay Dale for a few minutes so that I can change”. They all looked at me and said “Oh yes, you are not ready!” Maryke delayed Dale. I changed, got to the chapel and the wedding proceeded. But something had gone wrong – the wedding was late. And it was my fault - I had taken the bride away. The prophesy, “It has been said that something always goes wrong at a wedding” had been fulfilled. Nothing detracted from the wedding. It was splendid. The ceremony was sincere, thoughtful and personal for them. Maryke and Adam were happy. It was worth it all. When we see the photographs, I will be the only one to understand the fields. After the ceremony the bride and groom had photographs taken. The photographer had found another field. I headed for the bar. John Shochot April 2010.
I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult.
I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities
of an 8-year-old again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think that it's a four star restaurant.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and
make ripples with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms are better than money because
you can eat them.
I want to lie under a big oak tree and run a lemonade
stand with my friends on a hot summer day.
I want to return to a time when life was simple.
When all you knew were colors, multiplication tables,
and nursery rhymes,
but that didn't bother you, because you didn't know what
you didn't know and you didn't care.
All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all the things that should
make you worried or upset.
I want to think the world is fair.
That everyone is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and
be overly excited by the little things again.
I want to live simple again.
I don't want my day to consist of computer crashes, mountains of paperwork, depressing news,
how to survive more days in the month than there is
money in the bank, doctor bills, gossip,
illness, and loss of loved ones.
I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind
word, truth, justice, peace, dreams,
the imagination, mankind, and making angels
in the snow.
So...here's my checkbook and my car keys, my credit
cards and all my responsibility.
I am officially resigning from adulthood.
-Author Unknown
7,270 search results
for 54 years.
Seems fair, but not when
you have a clause
that carries
your name.
69 is the number
of those
shot in the back in 1960
-fleeing, not fighting-
And you, yes you
were to blame.
1 is another nameless
figure, but escaped
from that “natural prison”
just to become a legend.
You never had a chance
to meet him. Or anyone else. For 6 years…
Because “they” decided
that you were too dangerous,
too influential. “They” wanted to
make sure your legacy dies with you. It did.
But I need to say: I acknowledge you.
You and your nickname, your blanket and letters from your wife
had me wiping away anti-passbook tears and lighting a candle for your life.
@ I can physically taste some words. Words like vehemently, curdle, flimsy and blurp.
@ I was born with 12 fingers (two thumbs on each hand).Yeah, I know. I blame my parents.
@ The word paraphernalia has me rolling on the floor laughing whenever I hear it or say it out loud. I’m easily pleased.
@ I chew my nails.
@ I think it’s okay to cry when you’re sad/happy/angry/excited/overwhelmed/feel like it. Even if you're a cowboy.
@ The younger me used to have dead straight hair, but I always wanted curly hair. While growing up, I prayed for curly hair. Now, I have very wavy hair. True story.
@ The sound of other people chewing and swallowing their food audibly gives me physical pain. Stop that.
@ I have three tattoos, and got my first one on my 21st birthday (“when you’re 21, you can do want to”).
@ I want six kids (yes, 6). I think whether you have three kids (my minimum) or six kids, the level of sheer chaos stays the same.
@ I am an only child.
@ I sleep with a notebook besides my bed to write down “profound” words, rhymes, phrases or ideas as they come to me. Many a “bestseller” has gone lost between nightfall and sunrise, so now I stay prepared. Just in case.
@ One of my biggest dreams is to open up my own restaurant one day.
@ I swallow my chewing gum.
@ I am totally sold out to God and I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for Him (I’m His biggest fan).
@ When I’m bored or struggle to fall asleep, I count the number of words of past conversations I had with people. Moreover, I count the letters of words of snippets of conversations I had with people. Helps with my spelling (41 words).
@ I am naturally blonde. Tried going back to my roots (so to speak) a while back, but people didn’t recognise me or take me seriously.
@ I used to (past tense) smoke for eight years, starting when I was 14 years old. That’s the one area of my life in which I don’t mind being called a quitter.
@ I am completely and utterly addicted to the “Twilight” saga. I’ve read all four books countless times and watched the movies even more VvvvvvvV.
@ My favourite smells in the whole wide world are: books (brand-new or hundreds of years old – each book has a different smell), that you-just-got-out-of-the-shower-smell, rain in the Klein Karoo, my Mum’s cooking and Japanese Cherry Blossoms.
@ Green tea ice cream rocks my little world (so does White Rabbit toffees and wasabi-coated peanuts).
@ Rumour has it that I make the most delicious Chicken Korma in the world. Sounds to me like a conspiracy theory.
@ I am sincerely petrified of walking down the aisle in three days’ time to become Adam’s wife, but in the same breath, I get butterflies (read: dragonflies) just thinking about it!
@ A day without Facebook, Twitter and Google, is a day wasted.
@ I over-analyse most things in life, take my relationships and friendships to heart and if you have me on your side, I will never leave you.
